Once Upon a Time
by Vermissa
Summary: In which Gregory Lestrade takes innocent lives and is turned into the Beast. While Mycroft Holmes has the gift of life and is accused of practicing black magic. [A Mystrade fairy tale AU.]


**Notes: **Hi everyone! Here's my first attempt at writing the fabulous pairing: Mystrade. It's a Beauty and the Beast AU, which I'm sure has been done before somewhere in the fandom. It's on-going, and will have approx. 20 chapters. I'm working on chapter 2 at the moment. Hopefully, I can update this story once a week. It's not beta-ed, or Brit-picked, or anything, really. So, all errors are mine alone. If you noticed any errors at all, please let me know so I can fix them asap! Thanks and enjoy!~

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I. The Beast

_Chapter 1: Justice Gregory Lestrade_

The summer sun scorched her bleeding back which was mapped with old and new wounds. It had been days since the last time she was allowed to go outside. Usually, she would never set foot out under the mid-August sun, being a lady of the upper class. But today, she considered it a blessing for this might be the last time she got to see the sky. Raising her head toward the burning sun, she felt the warmth tickled her dried skin. A light breeze suddenly swept across the courtyard, stirring up the fallen leaves in its path. It caressed her battered form, reminding her of the her mother's embrace.

Without her realizing, a single tear rolled down her cheek. It ran over the bruises and cuts that decorated her beautiful high cheekbones. Beautiful. Was she?

A sharp stab on her shoulder interrupted her musings. It was one of the guards pushing her toward the door, back into the blackened hell. As she clumsily stepped over the threshold, the moist, cool air inside welcomed her. Keeping her head bowed, she followed the guards down three flights of stairs. The stone steps were coated with blood, sweat, and spits from thousands of others who shared her fate. She knew there was no escape, and most definitely no proper trials to prove her innocence because they already determined that she was guilty.

_I am not a witch_.

No one would believe her, even her own family. Father had been particularly displeased by the shameful news; it would leave an unmovable stain on the family's name. Mother was distressed, but recoiled every time her accused daughter reached out for her. Her little sister, the sweet ten-year-old Caroline, hid her pink cheeks behind their mother's skirt. The rejection hurt, the lack of trust hurt even more.

She reached the last step. A large stone-walled room spread out in front of her. Lined the walls were torches burning viciously, casting eerie shadows on every surface. Her feet sank a little into the damp dirt floor as she walked toward the only chair in the middle of the room. The guards had situated themselves at the foot of the stairs, their faces aloof.

A few moments after she sat down, she heard pounding footsteps approached. The wooden door that was tucked neatly into a dark corner of the room swung opened, allowing five figures to take turn stepping out and into the light.

The tallest, and probably the youngest of the group was first to speak, "Miss Jacqueline Eastwood?

She nodded.

"I am Justice Gregory Lestrade," the man introduced himself with a dignified tilt of his head. "I will be in charge of your case."

She had heard of that name before. It was often mentioned in whispers among the villagers, Justice Gregory Lestrade was infamous for his ruthless method of dealing with the accused witches. The horror stories of torture and gruesome deaths at the hands of the man standing in front of her caused fear to run down her spine. But what else was there to be afraid off? She had been tortured for weeks and imprisoned in a holding cell cramped with over twenty other accused witches, and maybe an army of cockroaches.

"The other gentlemen present today would as jury," he waved a hand carelessly toward his companions. "Now, if you please, Miss Eastwood, confess your crimes and may God forgives you." There was no sincerity or respect for the name of the Lord as the words escaped his mouth.

"I am innocent," she said. He voice croaked and her hands began to tremble.

"I'm afraid that the evidence suggested otherwise," he said as he started to circle around her. The jury stood in silence.

"What evidence?" She was genuinely curious.

"Your family's gardener reported seeing you performed rituals in your bedroom. Two other maids reported similar sightings. When we conducted a throughout search, we found traces of potions, various witchcrafts ingredients, and white candles," he replied in a bored, automated voice. "How do you explain that?"

"I never owned anything like those you just listed. I swear!" She lost her composure and frantically said. She knew these men would never listened to her. Yet, the survival instinct inside her told her to fight until the end, for whatever good that would do.

"Then you are implying that you have been framed?"

"I… Yes! I must have been because I am not a witch!" She had to use all her willpower not to yell or break down in tears. This was it then. The so-called trial that only served its purpose on papers.

"Unfortunately, all we have are your words against actual evidence and witnesses," Justice Lestrade said in a somber voice. His eyes gleamed of a thirst for blood.

"No! Please… I…" She did not what else to say to prove her innocence. Her death sentence had already stuck the moment they arrested her.

"What do you think, gentlemen? Guilty or not guilty?" He turned around to face the four other men.

"Guilty," the first men said. Followed by the second, third, and fourth. _Guilty_.

"No…" She shook her head violently.

"Very well," Justice Lestrade turned to once again facing his prisoner, "Jacqueline Eastwood, you are found guilty of practicing witchcrafts. By the name of the Lord, I sentence you to death by burning at the stake; it is to be carried out tomorrow at noon." His voice echoed in her ears as the reality finally, finally made itself known.

She knew there was no hope, yet she had hoped anyway. She had hoped for a miracle, for anything, that would help her. She would pledge herself to the devil if she had to.

"Take her away!"

* * *

Justice Gregory Lestrade sat down on his armchair in front of the fireplace. The fatigue of the day weighed down on his shoulders. He had sentenced one hundred and seven two accused witches from a nearby village to death this morning. He could still smell the sour stench of the prison on his skin despite the hot bath he had taken the moment he returned.

Reaching out toward the table next to the armchair, he grabbed a bottle of rum and poured himself a glass. He drank slowly, savoring the taste on his tongue, trying to swallow down the guilt that was creeping up from his subconsciousness. He did not regret, and never would, the things he had done. It was in the name of the Lord. He was preserving the delicate balance of good over evil. It was his job.

Lestrade felt his eyelids drooped, dragged down by the weight of physical and emotional exhaustion His fingers that wrapped around the glass loosened as he relaxed his shoulders and leaned back against the cushioned backrest of the armchair. With his head tilted to the side, Lestrade stared blankly out the window, trying to look beyond the unkempt rows of rose bushes toward the direction of the mountains. Yearning filled his heart as he drifted off to an unrestful sleep.

* * *

_He was back at the small hut of his childhood, up high in the mountain range and hidden deep in the woods. It was to keep them safe from the claws of the witches, his mother had explained. Gregory spent his day hunting small animals – squirrels, rabbits, and sometimes, even a few foxes, with his older brother - William. While his mother and younger sister, Melody, tended to their small garden in a piece of land behind their hut that his mother had cleared and seeded. He had no memories of his father. For as long as he could remember, it was only his mother, brother and sister that were with him. He once dared to ask her about his father out of childish curiosity, and received a stern, disapproving glance in reply._

_They rarely go down to the village in the valley. His mother detested the villagers. She called them all sorts of vile names. Greg winced every time he heard it. He could almost taste the poison and hatred dripped out of her words._

_One autumn morning, as Greg and Melody were playing with the piles of dried leaves on the ground, William rushed back from the path that led to the village. His face was blushed and his hair matted with sweat. There were beads of blood rolled down his left cheek from a gaping gash across his temple._

"_Get inside! Now!" He yelled and waved frantically._

_Their mother ran out from the hut, wiping her hands hurriedly onto her apron. "Will! What's wrong?!" She grabbed her eldest son by his elbows, her eyes examined the wound on his head._

"_It's…them! The warlocks!" Will said, gasping for breath._

"_What?!" She turned around to Greg and Melody, who stood in silent horror. "Run! Into the woods, now! GO!"_

"_Mom?" Greg asked, confused. Who were the warlocks? Why were they here? And why should he run away?_

"_Take your sister and run! Go up to the caves behind the hill. GO!" She pushed her youngest children toward the trees, shoving them further into the shades._

_Greg was scared, but he grabbed his sister's hand and pulled as he ran deeper into the safety of the woods._

"_Greg! What about mummy and Will?" Melody asked as they continued their escape. From what, Greg didn't yet know._

"_They will be fine," he replied. It was meant to reassure her as much as himself. They heard horses neighing, hooves pounding on the soft earth. Though obscured by the thick branches, Gregory could see the black cloaked figures dismounting and advancing towards his mother and Will. _

_They didn't get far when they heard their mother screamed, "You bastards!" What followed was a blur in his memory – an explosion, fire started to spread everywhere, his mother's screams mixed with the crackles of the fire, and a chant spoken in archaic words that Gregory didn't understand yet sent chills down his spine._

"_No! Mummy!" Melody cried. Greg could feel his tears welling up, but he only tightened his grasp on his sister's hand and ran._

"_No! We have to go back! Greg!"_

_The chant grew louder and louder, as if those black cloaked figures were right beside them. Greg thought he could feel the heat of the fire licking at the nape of his neck, trialing down his back, and nipped at the soles of his feet._

"_No! No!" Melody cried, but allowed herself to be pulled along by Greg._

"_Don't look back, Mel," Greg said._

_Yet, she kept on turning back to catch sight of their home being burnt to ashes. Their mother's and brother's fates unknown._

"_No!" She cried. Tears smeared her small face. "Mummy!"_

* * *

"No!" Lestrade mumbled. "No…" He woke up, startled. His heart was beating wildly, and beads of sweat rolled down his face. Looking around, he realized he was no longer in the woods running for his life, but in the safety of his mansion. With a heavy, relieved sigh, he wiped his forehead and sat up straight. Refilled the glass, Lestrade took a large gulp of the rum, willing his heart to calm down.

Lestrade wondered if he could ever forget. The memory hadn't come back to him in a long while. Usually, he could control his emotional state, not letting the past caught up with him. Though he couldn't say for sure it wasn't what shaped his current circumstance. He drank more rum, hoping the alcohol would wash away the unpleasantness.

The night deepened, and the fire dimming. Lestrade found himself rooted to the armchair, nursing his bottle of rum. He had dismissed all of the servants hours earlier, wanting to keep the mansion quiet and empty for the sake of his sanity. There were times when he thought he would lose it; he was a broken man – wounded to the very core of his existence. No one knew. He would never allow anyone to find out about his weaknesses; he had plenty of them – enough to share with the entire country.

The clock continued its rhythmic tickling, counting the hours the night had consumed. Lestrade pushed the empty rum bottle away, focusing all his energy on standing up and walking over to the window for some fresh air. His head was throbbing violently, as if the rapid beating of his heart had crawled up to his brain. His hands grasped onto the window sill tightly as he leaned his upper body out into the cold air. It soothed the pain somewhat. He took in a deep breath, inhaled the sweet scent of lavender that grew along the outer side of the wall.

Tomorrow would be better, he reassured himself. Tomorrow, he would forget everything. Tomorrow, he would continue his duties as Judge. However, unbeknownst to him, tomorrow would be _his_ judgment day.

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**TBC**


End file.
